The pain of knowing: part three

To know is to hurt.
Because knowledge is pain
It hurts where the world broke your skin,
where the light came flooding in,
where an old beast used to sleep.

To know is to bear the weight;
to always carry a wide, soft, jupiterian-gravity-like heaviness 
on your shoulders ever-ready to brace.

To know is to hope and wait until opportunity emerges, or the time comes
to transfer it to another;
Not for any kind of real release—because that’s not possible once you know things—
but, for the simple reason of not being alone under a mountain’s weight.

2016, Jupiter down under. Juno, NASA.

The pain of knowing: part one

The pain of knowing: part two

What can you do when you like pain?

It’s a bad thing when you like pain,

because then you practice the art of incising your skin 

in ways that leave paper thin cuts that only ever hurt 

but never draw blood;

kind of wounds that only sting, but can never kill a thing.

It’s a good thing when you like pain,

because it’s the thread that runs through our everyday, 

woven into our very grains.

Pain is that unbearably soft thing that holds 

happiness’ frame of reference in place. 

It’s a good thing to know,

on first-name basis, 

it’s a good thing to get comfortable with;

as long as you stay kind to everyone else

and, in the eyes of the world, to yourself.

1895, A system of surgery, Sir Treves Frederick. Open Knowledge Commons and Harvard Medical School.

Of sunsets and pain in paradise 

The sun is burning anyway;

it doesn’t need more pain.

Earthly love

is hardly ever a bargain.


Everything hurts but tomorrow

when you like glossy covers

with pictures that cause a slow gnawing 

from the heights of paradise complex.  


Life cuts

as often as it wets our hearts

with soft clouds

dipped in orange dyed lagoon sunsets.

And we are left beating

with the fish washed fresh

off the warm waters

at some faraway paradise bay.


Image by Andy Moine